


Visions of Gideon

by orphan_account



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gift Fic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What are you supposed to do when the love of your life slowly falls out of love with you? [dw20]
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Visions of Gideon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deltachye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/gifts).



Homare Arisugawa always tells you that you’re his muse.

He treats you like a princess and holds you like you’re a porcelain doll. He kisses you like it’s his last moment with you and he showers you in love and luxury. He makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, like you’re always walking on air and you never want to come down.

Life with him is a bright sky and a meadow of flowers that doesn’t end. The flowers blossom and bloom and you never get tired of it, never tired of its beauty and its dizzying aroma that sweeps you off your feet. Being loved by him makes you feel like you live in a fairytale where he is the prince and you are his princess, living together in a peaceful kingdom surrounded by harmony. It’s a picture-perfect dreamland you never want to get out of.

Homare Arisugawa is one of a kind. He’s uniquely him and he’s yours as you are his. He’s an artist but he is also a masterpiece; his beauty rivals Michelangelo’s _David_ and he is every artwork in a museum combined, perfectly carved and created and made to be admired. His skin is as smooth as marble and as unblemished as porcelain. His hair, magenta like hydrangeas, is soft as silk like it had been spun carefully by angels. He holds himself with poise and grace that would put the Paris Opera’s ballerinas to shame.

He is a man of perfection, beauty, grace and elegance, but he is also shrouded in mystery. He rarely talks about his family or his childhood and he doesn’t tell you much about his emotions other than love and joy. Sometimes it makes you think if he finds you untrustworthy, if he thinks you’re going to use it against him even though you would never do that. You would never hurt him. You could _never_ hurt him. 

He feels so close but so far away. You can hold him in your arms and his heart will be with you, but where does his mind wander? His gaze is trained on you but at the same time, it feels like he’s staring right through you. You don’t know what it is, but something is wrong and he doesn’t look like he’ll open up about it to you any time soon. All you can do is let him have his secrets and try to suppress the worries clouding your mind.

The moment Homare calls your name, those worries fade away like they weren’t there at all.

He’s just finished setting the red and pale pink roses into the empty vase on your nightstand. He brings flowers to you every few days and showers you in compliments, making sure that you can feel his love. And you do. You always do. You always make sure he feels loved by you, too. It is what he deserves, after all. He’s never talked about his past (he claims to ‘prefer living in the present’) but you’ve assumed that something must’ve happened for him to not want to talk about it.

Wordlessly, you rush up to him and pull him in for a hug, wrapping your arms around his waist as he breathily chuckles at your sudden show of affection. His Armani perfume is prominent and he smells like vanilla and roses, warm and sensual, but it suits him well. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, unable to hold back the smile on his lips. He calls you his dearest and tells you he loves you as he embraces you tenderly, carding his fingers through your hair. You melt into his touch and your heart swells with happiness, for this is the man fate has given you and made to fit you perfectly. 

Sometimes, when you think about Homare, you realize that there are still some things about him that you don’t know. You still haven’t met his parents and he refuses to talk about them, telling you that his past isn’t important. You know that he aspires to be a poet and that he comes from wealth, judging from the designer clothes and perfumes he wears. It feels like you know so much about him but at the same time, you _don’t_. You know he likes to read Shakespeare and he hates eating caviar, but who is he beyond those little quirks?

Today’s your second anniversary of being with him.

You welcomed him with a homemade meal and he brought you a big bouquet of red roses once again. Today should be a day full of joy and adoration for each other, but it doesn’t feel that way. Even as you’re wearing one of his favorite nightgowns on you, he doesn’t respond at all. He looks uncharacteristically stoic, not like the Homare you know. He doesn’t tell you he loves you. He doesn’t call you his dearest, his darling, his sweetheart. He doesn’t bat an eye at you and when you ask him what’s wrong, he pushes you away and tells you he’s tired.

As an attempt to comfort him, you slowly lean over to kiss him, but he doesn’t reciprocate it, not in the way he used to. It’s not as passionate or loving like the previous times; it feels like he’s only doing it to finish it as soon as possible. He doesn’t smile at you and call you his beautiful lady like he used to. When you pull away, he sighs quietly and rolls over on his side, his back facing you and you’re left to wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

The fake smiles. The unreadable glint in his eyes. He doesn’t call or text you as much as he used to. He barely touches you, barely kisses you, barely even _talks_ to you… as these memories flash through your mind, you realize that Homare is falling out of love with you.

Your heart that he used to hold and cherish so tenderly is slipping out of his grasp and ready to break at any moment. His words and touches have become robotic and _meaningless_ , and the worst part is that you can’t do anything about it. Everything is out of your control as it spirals down. Maybe he isn’t made for you like you originally thought.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who tried to win your heart with his poetry and soliloquies. This is the same man who _did_ win your heart and cherished it, cherished _you_ , made you feel like he was heaven personified and filled your days with constant bliss. This is the man who you had given your everything to. You bared your soul to him and gave him your heart without hesitation because you wanted to, wanted him to love you as much as you loved him, and he _did_. But here he was, breaking your heart without even knowing it yet.

Maybe _you_ aren’t made for him.

You knew that this day was coming, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what he said.

_I’m not in love with you anymore._

The guilt is evident on Homare’s face. You want to ask him _why_ , demand him to tell you what was wrong with you that made him decide you weren’t worth loving anymore. You want to ask him if he’s been seeing someone else, if he’s found someone better than you to replace you, if this entire relationship was fake because he only needed company. But you don’t ask that, because he would never hurt you on purpose; he’d never build you up just to break you down. You _can’t_ ask, because you’re too stricken with shock to say anything.

Nothing stops the tears streaming down the sides of your face. Even as you wipe them away with your sleeve, they keep coming and eventually, you give up, allowing yourself to break down into broken sobs and whimpers. You want him to comfort you but at the same time, you don’t because you _know_ you will cling on to him and beg him to stay. But begging him to stay is useless if— now that he doesn’t love you anymore. He doesn’t _want_ you anymore. 

When he wraps his arms around you, you immediately respond to it and cry into his chest, sobbing out apologies for not being enough for him. He tells you that you shouldn’t be sorry because he truly _did_ love you, but the flame had died down a long time ago and that it was his fault for continuing to lead you on. He only pulls away once you’ve become quiet and gingerly cups your face with his hands, brushing away your stray tears with his thumbs as he gives you a sad smile.

You’re holding on to the lapels of his coat but he gently pries your wrists off them. Hesitantly, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, just to comfort you one last time before he leaves you to wander alone aimlessly in the fantasy he helped you build.


End file.
